


the row

by qu1nce



Category: Broadchurch
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-30
Updated: 2018-04-04
Packaged: 2019-04-15 03:25:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 6,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14150919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/qu1nce/pseuds/qu1nce
Summary: pre s3. Hardy and Miller, back together again. Little bit of shouting, smattering of angst.





	1. miller.i

It’s already been an eventful morning when DS Ellie Miller shows up late to the station, attempted café thief in hand. But instead of the regular daily bustle she expects to see, everyone is gathered for a briefing from the Chief Super. Miller can’t quite make out what’s being said but whatever it is, it’s unpopular, results in a collective groan from the assembled coppers. 

Miller drops her thief off to be charged and then flags down one of the new DCs, asks what the Chief Super said. 

“Oh, new DI’s been appointed, starts next Monday,” he says. “Outsider, but seems he’s been here before. Already has a nickname.”

That catches her attention. It can’t be, she thinks. He bloody hates it here. 

“Who is it?” 

She knows what the answer will be before the DC replies. No one else could elicit that sort of groan from the team. But she still holds her breath, waiting for confirmation. 

“DI Alec Hardy.”

She’s instantly full of conflicting emotion, eddies of excitement, hurt, irritation. 

“Oh, quite right,” she says, for lack of being able to think of anything else. Makes some sort of dire expression but then finds herself biting her lip, trying not to grin.

She walks to her desk, her head full of questions. Where he’s been, why he’s never called, why he’s coming back now. God, he would hate that, she thinks with a smirk. But it’s less than he deserves, the uncommunicative arse. 

Yea, she’s pissed at him, confused. Maybe even more than a little hurt. She had thought they were friends, though the exact nature of their relationship was difficult to define. All she could say for sure was that she cared about him and she had thought that in his own Hardy way, he had cared about her. 

But you’d think he’d have called if that was the case, would have tried to stay in touch. 

And yet the most frustrating part about Hardy is that he’d just as likely not call because he thought it the right thing to do, because he thought she didn’t want to hear from him. Or because he’s a great big knob that doesn’t know how to deal with human relationships. 

Of course, to be fair, she hasn’t called either. Hardy isn’t someone you call to just have a chat with. And somehow every time she thought of texting, all those moments of all those days, she’d end up convincing herself to delete the message, obliterate any evidence of how much she missed him. 

Miller thinks about the last time she saw him, nearly two years past. At his little blue shack, his bags packed to go. 

It had taken a great strength of will that day. To let him leave without a fight, not tell him how much she wanted him to stay. They just didn’t say things like that to one another, no matter how true they might be.

She still remembers the moment so clearly, exactly what had been going through her mind. 

Hardy, about to hug her goodbye, finally make good on his court bathroom gesture. 

She’d been afraid of so many things. Crying, probably quite a lot. Being unable to let go. Embarrassing herself by pleading with him to stay. 

He’d already seen her in the worst moments of her life. She had not want to end things in tears, a mess yet again. 

And really, a hug from Hardy. It’s not what they do. Should be reserved for some dire circumstance. 

So she’d pre-empted his offer, surprised him. 

Handshake. 

It had done the job at the time, gotten her out of there without soaking his shirt in tears, making him uncomfortable with an emotional scene. 

But since then she’d catch herself wondering. What it would have felt like, to wrap her arms around his thin frame, bury herself in him. 

It’s odd but Ellie still has such a sense of comfort when she thinks of him. Like he was some solid dependable presence instead of an miserable demanding sod of a boss who existed just to berate her and bully her into favours. 

She had known him for less than a year. A miniscule fraction of her career, her life. Yet she can’t shake his presence in her thoughts. Still misses him almost daily, thinks of things she would say to him, just to see him scowl. Still constantly wonders why he never called, texted, anything. 

And now he’s coming back. Just thinking about it fills her with excitement, nervous anticipation. 

She can picture it now. They are going to have such a row. 

Miller grins to herself, mentally starts to prepare a list of complaints.


	2. hardy.i

He moves them to Broadchuch the weekend before he starts his old job again. A place on the hill this time, away from the ever treacherous water. 

Daisy is as skeptical about small town life as he was, which amuses him. He remembers how much he hated it once, those great big cliffs, the ever present sea, the quaintness of the town and its inhabitants. But he hears himself telling her that it’s a good place for a fresh start, that she just needs to give it a chance. 

Because for whatever reason, Alec Hardy is now sure it’s where he’s meant to be. It’s here he rediscovered a desire to live, was reborn. Where he found resolution for Pippa, for Lisa, for Danny. 

It’s not like him to be so sentimental, take meaning in things. But it had struck him so hard. That he had been there before. 

And ever since he’s felt as if he’d left something behind, still tied to the place with intangible string. 

Back home he had to stop himself missing it. All that grumbling at the sea and the wind, walking dangerously close to the cliffs, staring at the waves. 

Sitting together on the bench. Their bench.

It’s a dangerous thought, one he would rarely let himself have. 

It would always leave him with his phone out, almost dialing her number. 

Then he’d have to talk himself out of the rest of the day, refer to the excuses he’s come up with. She doesn’t care, would have called. It’s been too long, he has nothing to actually say. Other than he misses her, that he’s sorry for never having called. And of course he’d never actually say that.

And now he’s back, even convinced Daisy to give it a go with him. A win over Tess, one he’s determined not to screw up. 

Hardy steps outside, looks over Broadchurch. He’s hidden away all weekend, didn’t want risking running into anyone he’d have to talk to before his first day back on the job. 

Of course he’s thinking mostly about running into one particular someone, is absurdly nervous about it. 

She’s going to be angry and he knows he deserves it. Not that he will ever admit it, will push back as strong as she gives. 

But he does feel bad that he thinks of her so often yet never called. That he wonders if she’s alright but never had the balls to even send a text, actually find out. 

What kind of bastard does that? Him, for sure. 

He is in for a row. And he’s rather looking forward to it.


	3. hardy.ii

Hardy’s at the station early, even for him. Needed to look around, settle himself back in his office before he has to deal with people. 

After his second cuppa others start to filter in, mill about, witter on about their weekends. It’s the sort of thing he never understood - the desire to chat, share. He just didn’t care about what his colleagues were doing with their spare time, assumed they felt the same.

Though it was not entirely true. At some point, in the distant past, he’d cared about what Tess did. Though still he’d been rubbish at talking to her, was only ever successful in asking her out because she had taken a liking to his surly directness. 

And then there’s Miller. He has so many questions for her, possibly more than she used to put to him. Not that he will ask them, at least not at once. 

Hardy looks out his office window, still hasn’t seen her. Not like her to be late, he thinks. Has a brief worry about it, then tells himself not to overreact. 

Though it does look like everyone else has arrived, all seem to be waiting for some sign from the new boss. 

He’d planned on briefing everyone first thing, make a show of his beliefs on discipline and punctuality. But it was already half nine and very little work is getting done by him or his team. 

He irrationally does not want to start without Miller, had hoped to have thrashed it out with her before the day even started. He’s both concerned that there is some nefarious reason for her absence and that that he doesn’t know where he stands with her. 

Which is ridiculous. He’s the boss, needs to remember how to take charge. 

And yet Hardy waits. Pretends to be looking at email until really he can’t delay any longer. 

Finally, he steps out of his office, absently adjusts his tie. Calls his team together, surveys them as they gather in the room. 

“As you probably know, I’m DI Alec Hardy. Some of you were here when I was DI here previously, if you weren’t, I’m sure you’ve heard tales. I haven’t changed. I still expect the best from…”

It’s right then that he’s interrupted with the bang of a door being pushed open furiously, loud footsteps hurrying in. 

Hardy looks over to the source of the commotion, then takes a deep breath, readies himself for the incoming storm.


	4. miller.ii

Miller enters, digging through her purse while automatically walking towards her desk, not taking note of her surroundings for the moment. She is frantically looking for a package of wet wipes she’s sure is in there, after having just noticed a spot of toddler vomit on her blazer as she was walking into the station. 

Mondays. 

It had already been a particularly trying morning - Fred having puked all over the car on his way to nursery school. Which ended up in a diversion back home for more clothes and then to Lucy’s where she had to grovel and make financial promises before Lucy would take on a sick child for the day. 

In the end she was over thirty minutes late for work and still felt she had done as well as she could. But what a way to spend a Monday morning, especially one she had been avoiding thinking about for a week. 

Miller only remembers exactly why she’s been avoiding thinking about it as she bursts into the CID room, realizes it’s quieter than usual. 

She drops the wet wipe search, looks up to see Alec Hardy, staring at her, his mouth still half open from whatever he’d just been saying. 

“Sorry, toddler vomit emergency,” she says briskly. Thinks of course those are her first words to him after over two years wondering what she would say to him if they were to meet again. 

He slightly raises one eyebrow at her, gives her such a familiar scowl it almost makes her grin, despite her morning. 

“You’re late, Miller,” he comments, no sign of amusement.

Ah, she’d almost forgotten how he does that. Instantly she feels flustered, put on the spot. All desire to smile at him vanishes and she only remembers all those moments, wondering after him. How angry she is at him for never calling, disappearing from her life. 

“Yeah well, at least I’m not a total wanker who comes back two years later, without a single word.”

The room is full of shocked silence. Monday morning and she’s already called the new boss a total wanker. Perfect. 

But it’s Hardy, she imagines he expects it. And he doesn’t look all that surprised, or angry either. Just his usual pressed lipped irritation. 

“Really, we’re going to do this now?” he asks, makes her remember that first day so sharply.

God she had hated him then.

What she feels about him now is convoluted. Irritated, hurt, excited, nervous, confused, pleased. All of that, plus some more.

She has so many questions that he isn’t going to answer. But no, she does not want to air it all out here, in front of everyone. 

“No, when you’re done this,” she replies, gives him her best pissed off look. “I’ll wait for you in there. Sir.” 

She throws sarcastic emphasis on the sir then nods towards his office. Heads in and closes the door without a glance back. 

Bollocks, she thinks. What a way to start her week.

She’s tense, irritated from her rush to get Fred to Lucy’s. And she’s going to take it out on Alec Hardy, the goddamned knob who can’t pick up a phone, tell her if he’s fucking thought of her once since disappearing from her life. 

Miller waits in taut anticipation. She’s been saving this up for awhile, it is going to feel good to let it go.


	5. hardy.iii

Hardy’s usual stoicism is a bit thrown when she catches him mid-boring introduction, calls him a total wanker in front of the entire station. Not that it hasn’t happened before and really, it was Miller, what else was he expecting?

He studies her while she’s telling him she’s going to wait in his office for him. She looks about the same. A bit harried, probably just due to wee sick Fred, her hair longer, tied back. But nothing to be alarmed about, not that he had been concerned or anything. 

Miller stalks off to the office, huffing under her breath. Hardy watches her and sighs. He’d been prepared for a row but Miller’s bad mood makes him wary, worried that he’s long ago screwed things up beyond repair. 

He continues his introduction to the rest of his new team but knows that no one is listening anymore. They’re all just waiting for him to finish so they can snicker about the new boss being called a wanker, speculate on what’s about to ensue in his office. 

So he cuts it short, sets them all off on their assignments. Then looks at his office and takes a deep breath. 

Opens the door and immediately feels tension, anger in the air.

Miller stands up, faces him with an expression he knows well.

“I sense that you’re angry with me,” he starts. Déjà vu all over again. All these words, once already said.

“Two years,” she snaps. “No calls, no texts, no emails.”

“I lost my phone,” he replies. “All my contacts.” 

Of course he knows how stupid an excuse it is but he’s already decided that’s what he’ll stick to until she stops bringing it up. Which could take a long while, knowing Miller. But he’s prepared for it, will keep telling his lame half-truth. 

Because he did lose his phone but he’s failing to mention that her number is etched in his brain. Just for emergency purposes, he tells himself. Though it’s hard to imagine what sort of emergency may come up that would require him to call her.

“Bollocks,” she says sharply. “You’re a bloody detective. You just didn’t care to call.”

“Oh and you were there ringing me all the time now were you?” he throws back. “My number didn’t change.” 

Miller’s nostrils flare, he can feel the fury coming off her.

“You come in, steal my job, arrest my husband, make me a part of your idiotic secret scheme. And then Joe is out, Sandbrook done and you just leave, never to be heard from again,” she yammers at him loudly. 

Hardy sighs. It’s all true, he thinks. He really has little defense. 

“It’s what you wanted,” he counters. Dares her to say otherwise. They were both there when she sent him off with a handshake. 

He had wanted to hug her. Remembers it clearly because he does not have that inclination very often, except with his daughter. 

He had thought they’d gotten close, at least what counted as close for him. He had been so grateful for her help, even though he had bullied her into it, not given her much choice. But she had been there for him when he really needed her, even solved Sandbrook as she’d said she would. 

He had tried to tell her that but she’d cut that short too, stopped him before he could say how much it meant to him. 

She kept him at a distance and he couldn’t blame her. He had been an angry, demanding boss. And then she’d become stuck with him when she came back, had no one else around.

‘Not hugging you,’ he hears in his mind. How else had he been supposed to interpret that? Other than she didn’t want to be any closer to him than she’d been forced to be. Which had legitimately left him wondering whether she wanted any further contact with him once he left. 

Though he does have to admit that he could have tried, considering how many times he thought about it. Should have at least sent a message before showing up in Broadchurch again.

“When did I ever say that?” Miller says, knocking him back into the present argument. She really does sound surprised, makes him wonder if he’s been wrong this entire time. 

“It’s not what you wanted?” he asks, again wondering why interpersonal communication is so incredibly difficult.

“I didn’t say that either,” she replies, glaring at him.

Hardy sighs, rubs his face with his hands.

“Ach Miller, what do you want from me?” he asks, tired already and feeling a headache start to form.

Miller glares at him for another moment, then something in her expression changes, gives a bit.

“I want to know you didn’t just forget about all this the moment you left,” she says angrily. 

He may be dense at this sort of thing but even he hears her silent words. Forget about all this, forget about me.

If she only knew how often he thought about this place, about her. He’d never hear the end of it.

Especially now, when he can hear the hurt in her voice. Hardy suddenly realizes he was wrong, that he had possibly misconstrued all of her words, actions. 

He can’t possibly tell her the truth. And now he feels terrible, like he screwed up badly. So he does what he always does when he’s in the wrong - pushes back, rounds on her. 

“Who says I didn’t,” he snarls, as dismissively as he can. 

It’s a shit thing say and he regrets it the second it’s out his mouth.

Miller stares at him for a moment, as if she too can’t believe what he’s just said. Then her face falls and she turns, storms out and slams his door so hard that the walls rattle and the windows shake. 

‘Well, that went poorer than expected,’ Hardy thinks as he sinks dejectedly into his office chair.

He closes his eyes, rubs them with his hands again. 

He’s really botched things up now. Will likely have to grovel, actually talk to her to make amends.

Usually he’d just give it up as a bad job, take the consequence.

But he knows he owes her the truth, no matter how hard it is for him to give. And this is one consequence he can’t accept. It’s Miller. He has to fix it.


	6. miller.iii

Miller storms out of Hardy’s office, heads straight for her usual refuge, the toilet stall. 

She still hears his words in her mind. 

“Who says I didn’t.” 

It was a horrible thing to say whether it was the truth or not. God, she had forgotten how angry he could make her. 

She tries not to cry but is completely unsuccessful. He is so infuriating. Always turns everything on her. When he’s the wanker that walked in, took her job, then somehow won her over with his stupid self-sacrificial dedication, concerned looks, attempts at caring. 

She doesn’t want to believe it. That he forgot about her, that he never once thought to call. That all the times she thought about him were never reciprocated, he just got on with his life, never looked back. 

Why would he have come back then? If he hated it so much the first time, didn’t even bother to keep in touch with the one person there that still cared about him? 

Worst yet, she wishes it didn’t bother her. That he forgot, didn’t care. Why should it matter? She had moved on, rebuilt a life with her boys. Reconnected with her town, her friends. She felt at home in Broadchurch again, comfortable in her new old life that had no trace of Alec Hardy in it. 

But it does matter. Because she had missed the grouchy bastard, his meaningful frowns, his gruff silences. And it makes her feel right shit that he hadn’t missed any of that, after all that time they spent together. 

Miller finally feels her tears winding down, wonders how long she’s been sobbing in a stall for. God, what a way to start the week, she thinks. 

She wipes her face as best she can with toilet paper, tries to come up with an exit plan. At this point she thinks she should just take the rest of the day off, go collect Fred from Lucy’s and try again tomorrow. Hopefully by that point she will have been able to hide away most of her hurt, see if she’s able to work with him without letting it bother her. 

Miller sighs, feels incredibly sad. She’d expected the row, just not this outcome. Had thought that they’d have it out like usual, then fix things up with mutually grudging apologies. But she’d forgotten how raw he could make her feel, full of unwanted emotion. 

To think she’d been so excited to have him back. Now she wonders if she can even be around him anymore, if he ever cared at all.


	7. hardy.iv

Hardy waits for as long as he can, mentally berating himself and trying to come up with some explanation that will appease her without completely revealing himself. He ends up making it nearly half an hour before he gives in, storms out of his office, still unsure what he’s going to say. 

He tries to walk over casually, looks around furtively before slipping in. Hopes that he’s managed to sneak in unobserved as he locks the door from the inside. 

Why does she always have to hide in the women’s toilets? he asks himself. It wouldn’t do to be accused of sexual harassment on his first day back, locking himself in the loo with a female DS. 

But it’s Miller. And she has to be expecting it by now, has to know he would come find her.

Though he had just basically told her he’d forgotten her, that she wasn’t anything to him. 

Hardy groans to himself, knows he’s going to have to put in a good effort to fix this mess he’s created. 

“Miller, come out,” he says, knocking on her stall. 

“Go away,” she replies, in a voice of venom and tears.

Hardy sighs, takes a breath.

“Ach I’m sorry,” he tries. “I didn’t mean it.” 

He hears her sniff, then blow her nose. Then there’s a long pause before he hears the lock slide back on the stall door, finds himself facing a fierce and tear-streaked Ellie Miller. 

She steps out of the stall and the strength of her glare nearly makes him stumble backwards. He’s barely able to look at the hurt in her face, cringes internally knowing it’s entirely his fault. 

“Then why’d you say it?” she demands, in a tone that says he’s got one chance and he’d better make it good. 

“Because I’m an arsehole,” he replies. Knows he should elaborate, explain. But it’s so difficult, the words and emotions all caught up in his chest. 

Miller looks daggers at him and he understands he’s nearly failed his one go at this thing he absolutely cannot bollocks up. That he has to come up with something good quickly if he’s going to gain any forgiveness. 

“How could I forget you Miller?” he sighs, looks skyward, shakes his head a little. “I thought about you all the time. You and Tom and wee…”

He trails off just to get a reaction out of her, maybe a snappy remark. Though it took him a long while to first remember little Fred’s name he’s firmly locked it into his memory ever since. 

For a moment Hardy recalls pushing the pram in the wind, feeling ridiculous. Wonders how big Fred’s gotten, remembers that Miller said she was late because he got sick.

She’s still glaring at him but he senses a tiny softening in her expression. At least she gets that he’s kidding, hasn’t stormed out yet. 

“Fred,” he finishes. “Wee Fred. Is he ill? You can go if you need to.” 

Miller huffs in exasperation then glances away for a moment before turning back towards him, a little less anger in her expression. 

“You should have called,” she states in a tone that brooks no argument. 

This one he’s going to have to give her, there’s no point fighting it.

“Aye, I should have,” he admits. “But I thought you’d want to move on, leave all this in the past.” 

It had made perfect sense to him. He’d played a large role in the worst thing that had ever happened to her. Why would she want to keep in touch when it would just constantly remind her of what happened with Joe? 

But Miller gives him that look that says he’s being daft in some way he doesn’t understand. Shakes her head in exasperation.

“God Hardy. I don’t think I could have made it through any of it without you. Everyone else was so sure I knew,” she says. “I felt so alone. But not when you were around.”

He remembers back to Joe’s trial, pulling her into the Sandbrook murders with him in an attempt to distract her, give her something to do other than worry about the court case. Of course it was as much for him as for her. He needed her, another pair of eyes, someone to drive his sorry ass around, keep Claire in line, help him solve the bloody thing. 

At the time it was all he had, his one way to keep her close, take care of her in his own obtuse way. He had always wondered if she saw his intent, how much he had hurt for her. 

“Ach, they don’t know you like I do, Miller. You’d have cut Joe’s balls off yourself if you’d known,” he replies, ducking the more emotionally fraught parts of her revelation.

That gets a smirk out of her and Hardy counts it as a point in his favour. Adds it to his other point from when she said she’d felt less alone when he was around. 

All in all, this bathroom conversation is going much better than their previous one. Miller’s talking to him, mostly over her tears and he’s managed to be honest, reveal some of himself. 

Hardy wonders if he should push it, knows he’d be taking a big risk. It just feels right. And yet precedent - two direct, unequivocal rejections thus far - tells him that he’s a poor judge of such things. 

In the end he finds he can’t help himself, decides he’ll just stoically accept the refusal again if necessary. But this time, instead of asking first, Hardy reaches out and puts his hand on her shoulder, sure she’s going to step away from his touch as she always has. 

When Miller makes no move towards escape he’s so surprised he almost pulls out of his awkward gesture. But instead, Hardy tells himself to breathe, that it’s just Miller, that he wants nothing more than to hug her tight, fix whatever hurt he’s caused. 

And so he does. Pulls her into his chest, feels her chin resting just above the bit of metal that regulates his heartbeat. Wraps his arms around her, lets her wipe a few last tears into his shirt. 

“Ah, Miller,” he says quietly into her hair. “It’s good to see you.” 

She doesn’t reply but does pull him tighter for a moment before finally letting go of him, stepping back. 

“You are such a knob,” she says in her most exasperated tone, accompanied by her best scowl. 

He doesn’t disagree, even has to bite back a smile. Miller can call him all the names she wants, has certainly done it before. He’s just inordinately pleased to have managed a hug, to not have bollocksed things up entirely.


	8. miller.iv

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> last chapter! was meant to stop at ch7 but then was compelled to do the make up scene from miller's pov too. if you liked this there'll probably be more like it to come, miller/hardy is my new fic jam.

When Hardy comes into the loo Miller tries to tell herself she hasn’t been waiting for him, that she does not want to hear whatever pathetic apology he’s managed to come up with. That it doesn’t make her feel better than he’s come looking for her. 

The first time, at the courthouse. She had felt more alone than ever, sure that no one gave a single shit that she was devastated, bawling in the toilet. 

Had absolutely not expected Hardy to barge in and intervene. Hadn’t wanted it either. Though once he was there she hadn’t felt quite so alone. At least someone had noticed her despair. Even if it was her gruff ex-boss, who didn’t ever know what to say.

And then he’d offered her a hug. At the time it had seemed ridiculous, as if an awkward hug from Hardy could do anything other than make them both uncomfortable. 

Though afterwards she did have to admit it had been an oddly kind, very un-Hardy thing to do. 

She remembers all this as he bangs on the door of her stall, asks her to come out. 

“Go away,” she snaps at him, tries to inject all her anger into those two small words. It may have made her feel better that he came looking for her, but there is plenty of anger left too. 

He sighs loudly, she can picture him rubbing his face tiredly.

“Ach I’m sorry,” he says in the tone he saves for real apologies. “I didn’t mean it.” 

The words are trite, mean nothing. Yet it’s not the words that soften her fury, it’s the way they’re inflected. Sighed, sheepish, that familiar burr of irritation. 

A genuinely sorry Hardy. Well, that’s something at least.

She sniffs, then blows her nose. Knows she looks a right mess. 

Wages an internal battle for another minute, righteous anger vs hopeful forgiveness. And yet she knows she’ll give him another chance, that she wants him to fix things.

Miller stands up, opens the door. Gives him her best glare as she steps out of the stall.

Hardy backs up and looks at her warily, waiting for an onslaught. 

“Then why’d you say it?” she demands. Thinks that if he gives some smart aleck response she’s done with him for good. 

“Because I’m an arsehole,” he replies glumly. 

Miller glares daggers at him, waiting for more. Feels the last of her patience for him drip away as he fails yet again at saying the right thing.

But then just as she’s about to really give up, Hardy sighs, gives her his softly irritated frown. Only Hardy can express so many things with the way he frowns, she thinks idly. This one says he’s annoyed with himself, can’t find the words for the situation.

Finally, he looks at her so seriously she can feel the emotion radiating from him. 

“How could I forget you Miller?” he says fondly. Looks skyward and shakes his head as if the thought is absurd. 

“I thought about you all the time. You and Tom and wee…”

He trails off and she knows he’s just trying to get a rise out of her. What really annoys her is that it works. That he can tease her with an inside joke, tell her he missed her with just the tiniest lilt of affection and suddenly he’s forgiven for leaving her alone, never bothering to call.

“Fred,” he finishes. “Wee Fred. Is he ill? You can go if you need to.” 

Miller huffs, more annoyed with herself than with him. She doesn’t want to make it this easy on him but it’s difficult when he’s being kind, thoughtful. Breaks all of their established rules, makes her feel emotionally itchy. 

“You should have called,” she states, trying to rekindle her anger.

But he doesn’t deny it, get defensive like he usually does. 

“Aye, I should have,” he says. “But I thought you’d want to move on, leave all this in the past.” 

She should have known. Hardy, for all his rough surliness, was always just trying to do the right thing. Find justice for victims, no matter what it cost him. Offer hugs in bathrooms even though it makes him uncomfortable.

If he’d known his silence hurt her she’s sure he would have kept in touch. She doesn’t like the thought that he had wanted to call, didn’t think she wanted to hear from him. Though it had always been a possibility. An idiotic, daft possibility only because it was Hardy, endlessly hopeless at human interaction. 

It is true she hadn’t fully appreciated him until Joe’s trial, when she realized how alone she was in the midst of all her former neighbours, friends. Then he’d dragged her into his Sandbrook mess, which at first had pissed her off. But then it had felt good that he still respected her as a detective, needed her help. It made her feel useful, occupied with something other than her sordid life, her murderous husband. 

At some point she’d realized it was his way of keeping her close, making sure she was okay. Only Hardy would try and improve her life by pulling her into an off the books murder investigation. 

After all that, all the hours they spent together. She could have said no, refused to help. Had every right with everything else that was going on in her life. 

But she had done it because she cared about him, more than she wanted to. Had worried about his dodgy heart, his obsessive drive. Had wanted to solve Sandbrook for him, relieve him of the burden. 

How could he have not understood? When she’d told him he was wrong, that they are not all alone in the end. 

It had hurt to hear him say it, even as an interrogation tactic. Because she knew he believed it, that he was truly alone. And she had so recently felt it, in that little flat with only baby Fred as company. 

But she hadn’t felt alone then, during the trial, driving Hardy everywhere, staying at his house, drinking his tea. 

Of course she’d never told him that, couldn’t possibly say it. 

Maybe she should have given into temptation, way back then. Wrapped her arms around him, asked him to stay. Maybe then he would have understood that she’d miss him, that he had meant something to her.

It bothers her suddenly that she’s never told him, could have thought all this time she didn’t want to hear from him. He at least deserves that, to know how big a knob he’s been.

“God Hardy. I don’t think I could have made it through any of it without you. Everyone else was so sure I knew,” she says. “I felt so alone. But not when you were around.”

Hardy gives her a sharp look, clearly surprised. 

“Ach, they don’t know you like I do, Miller. You’d have cut Joe’s balls off yourself if you’d known,” he replies, carefully avoiding any emotional parts of what she said.

It’s a perfect Hardy response, just what she’s missed. She smirks despite herself, comforted by his familiar presence. Glances up at him, sees that he’s giving her a studious, considered look.

Paradoxically, it’s the softness in his expression that makes her so tense. It’s just so not Hardy. Or more like a peek at the ever-elusive inner Hardy.

Either way, it makes her nervous, unsure. Like there must be something terribly wrong if he’s initiating physical contact of any sort. Though of course she feels that way for a good reason, still remembers his hand on her shoulder as she retched in the corner of the interrogation room.

And yet this time, when he puts his hand on her shoulder, she resists the instinct to jerk away, pull free. Tells herself that nothing terrible is happening, that this is Hardy caring, what she wanted all along. 

She can tell he’s surprised when she doesn’t resist his touch, freezes mid-gesture, as if unsure if he should continue. 

It’s such a Hardy thing to do, panic mid-hug. But it just fills her with affection for him, at his awkward attempts at interaction.

Which makes it all the better when he doesn’t stop, pulls her in tight. 

It feels so strange and so right. To breathe him in, wipe her tears on his shirt. Feel his arms wrapped around her, rest her chin above the device that keeps him alive. 

“Ah, Miller,” he mutters quietly. “It’s good to see you.” 

She doesn’t reply, just tugs on him tighter for a long moment before finally letting go, sure they’ve maxed their physical contact limit for the next decade. 

“You are such a knob,” she says in her most exasperated tone, wearing her best scowl.

Hardy raises an eyebrow in response, almost smiles and turns away to hide it. Then looks back, his frown fixed in its regular place.

“And you’re a right disaster, Miller,” he fires back. “Get yourself cleaned up and get to work.” 

Ah good, back to normal, she thinks. Gives him a solid ‘screw you’ look as he unlocks the door and leaves. 

Once he’s gone, Miller exhales a lungful of emotion, tries to be less of a tear-soaked disaster. Cleans up as best she can before finally exiting the loo, walking over to her desk. 

Of course everyone looks up at her as she re-enters the CID room, whispered gossip everywhere about the row she’s had with the new boss.

Still a shit Monday, even after making up with Hardy. 

But then she notices a steaming cup of tea on her desk. Takes a sip and it’s exactly as she likes it. 

He’s learning, she thinks. Smiles to herself. 

It’s impossible to deny, she’s thrilled to have him back. Despite starting her week in vomit and shouting and tears.

Miller sits back, drinks her tea. Looks over to his office, watches him grumble about. Grins at how many arguments are yet to come, how pleased she is he’s back.


End file.
